Eternal Ephemerals

Love is beautiful

The café was crowded, as always, the air thick with the hum of conversations and the rich scent of roasted coffee beans. Emma sat in the corner, her back pressed against the cold brick wall, her eyes drifting over the tables, watching people drift in and out of each other's lives. Couples leaned across tables, their hands intertwined, their heads close together, eyes alight with some secret joy. Friends laughed, clinking mugs, their stories weaving into the comfortable rhythm of intimacy. Even the people sitting alone seemed tethered to someone—glancing at their phones, waiting for a text, for someone to meet them.

Emma sat alone, her coat pulled tightly around her, though the chill she felt was from the inside. It was a quiet sort of ache that gnawed at her, a feeling she couldn't quite shake. Her coffee was lukewarm now, forgotten, as her eyes traced the room. What was it about love that made people cling to it so desperately? she wondered, absently turning the pages of her book without reading a single word.

She had been part of those pairs once, had felt the spark, the rush of connection. And yet, every time, it had ended the same way: with heartbreak, with disappointment, with her sitting alone again, wondering why she had let herself believe that love would be different this time. She had tried—she had really tried—to do what everyone said you were supposed to do. To open herself up, to give and compromise, to allow someone into her life, her space, her heart.

But it had never been enough. And the more she gave, the less of herself she seemed to have. Love didn't complete her; it chipped away at her, piece by piece, until she felt like a hollowed-out version of herself, a faint echo of the woman she had once been.

Why do people need that one person? The question gnawed at her, like a puzzle she couldn't solve. Why do they search for it, chase it like their lives depend on it? She looked at a couple by the window, their fingers laced together, their heads bent in quiet conversation. Their laughter rang out softly, like a private joke no one else could understand. Was this what it meant to be whole? she wondered. To find someone to share yourself with, to wrap your heart around theirs, hoping they wouldn't crush it?

But Emma couldn't see it. She couldn't understand how people found joy in something that seemed so fraught with risk. Every relationship she had been in felt like walking a tightrope, balancing precariously between compromise and resentment, between intimacy and isolation. The constant awareness of someone else's needs and moods, the vulnerability of opening up, the endless series of adjustments—it was exhausting.

Love demands too much, she thought, her gaze falling to her book. The words blurred beneath her thoughts. It requires you to soften your edges, to let someone see all the parts of you, even the ones you don't like, and hope they won't use it against you.

She remembered the late-night arguments, the strained silences, the constant second-guessing of every decision. She had tried to fit herself into the shape of what love was supposed to be, but it always felt unnatural. She liked her solitude. She liked waking up in the morning and deciding how to spend her day, without needing to check in with someone else, without bending her plans around theirs.

Maybe, she thought, tracing the spine of her book with absent fingers, maybe love just isn't meant for everyone. Maybe some people are meant to walk alone, to find contentment in other things. She had found her own joys, hadn't she? The quiet moments in the early morning when the world was still, the smell of fresh pages in a bookstore, the softness of a blanket wrapped around her on a cold night. These were the things that filled her heart. Not love. Not someone else's touch.

She had tried to explain this to friends before, but they never understood. To them, love was the grand pursuit, the thing you searched for endlessly, the thing that would make your life meaningful. They spoke of it in glowing terms, as if finding that one person would unlock the secret to happiness. But Emma had never been convinced. She had seen love unravel, had watched it twist into something painful and heavy, until the people involved were left shattered, trying to pick up the pieces of who they used to be.

She thought of Sarah, her best friend, who had fallen in love so hard and fast that it seemed like a dream. But then it had all come crashing down. Sarah had given everything to that man—her time, her heart, her trust—and when it ended, she was left hollowed out, a shadow of herself. It had taken months for Sarah to heal, and even now, she still looked a little too fragile, a little too cautious, as if she feared the next blow was just around the corner.

Is that what love does? Emma wondered, glancing back at the couple by the window. The man reached over, tucking a strand of hair behind his partner's ear, the gesture so gentle it almost made her heart ache. The woman looked up at him, her eyes softening, and Emma had to look away.

It was too much. She didn't want to feel that longing, that small, aching hope that maybe, just maybe, someone could look at her that way. No, she thought firmly. I can't afford to want that.

She had learned long ago that relying on someone else to fill your empty spaces was dangerous. People leave. They change. They break promises. Emma had seen it too many times. She wasn't willing to gamble with her heart like that anymore.

Love is beautiful, she mused, her fingers drumming lightly on the table. But it isn't required. Not for everyone.

People could keep their grand gestures, their whispered promises, their soft glances across crowded rooms. She didn't need it. She could find her own way, without the messiness of it all. She could build a life that was enough, just for herself.

The café's door chimed as a new group walked in, laughing as they jostled for a table. Emma sighed softly and closed her book, slipping it into her bag. As she stood, she glanced out the window, where the couple was still deep in their quiet conversation, their hands still intertwined.

For a brief moment, Emma felt the flicker of something—an ache, a pang of curiosity about what it would feel like to be held like that, to be someone's world, even if just for a moment. But she brushed it aside, pulling her scarf tighter around her neck as she stepped out into the cold.

The crisp autumn air hit her cheeks, sharp and bracing. She inhaled deeply, feeling the coldness seep into her lungs, clearing her mind. She didn't need to be completed. She wasn't missing pieces, wasn't half of something waiting to be whole. She was enough, just as she was.

Love was beautiful, yes. She could see that. But it wasn't for her. And that, too, was okay. She had her books, her quiet moments, her own company. That was enough.

It had to be.